


The Play's the Thing

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale wants to go on the stage, Established Relationship, Light-Hearted, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sweet, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21709999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley reluctantly lets Aziraphale talk him into taking an acting class together, where things do not turn out as expected.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	The Play's the Thing

The Play’s the Thing

Aziraphale loved the theatre.

He had been attending plays since their inception, beginning in ancient Athens. While the occasional tragedy moved him, he found the comedies more to his tastes – he adored the clever wit of Aristophanes best and wished he had thought to save more of the playwright’s lost works at the time. Yes, _The Frogs_ had survived, thankfully, which Sondheim had turned into that brilliant musical. And he enjoyed _The Birds_ , and _Lysistrata_ , but he mourned the loss of that scathing satire, _Up Yours, Euripides!_

Ah, the good old days.

He didn’t find the Roman theatre as much fun, though Plautus could turn a deft phrase now and then, and the Dark Ages were rather dull with all those mystery plays and liturgical dramas. Ah, but the Renaissance! He followed several delightful troupes who performed improvisational plays across Europe, enjoying their lighthearted antics. 

And of course, then came Elizabethan England, and Shakespeare. No one could hold a candle to the divine Will.

During the Seventeenth century he vacillated between the French Baroque plays of Corneille, Racine, and Moliere, and the Restoration comedies back in London. Things took a downward turn for a while in the Eighteenth century, when state censorship made things much less fun, and he stopped attending the theatre for well over a century. Then in the late Nineteenth century he discovered the delightful operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan, and the amusing plays of Oscar Wilde.

And he loved theatre still, with a fondness for comedy and musicals and romantic stories. From time to time he had even wished he could stand on a stage himself, and speak the wonderful lines he had heard. Performing for people had drawn him to stage magic as well – though he rarely had an opportunity to practice.

Thus, when the nice young man dropped off the poster and asked him to put it in his bookshop window, Aziraphale was quite intrigued.

_Learn to act! Put on a play! Be on the stage this summer!_

The poster advertised a six-week intensive course in Beginning Acting, culminating in a one-act play to be performed by the students at something called the Innovators Drama Festival.

Aziraphale was still contemplating this enticing notice when Crowley sauntered downstairs. He had moved into the bookshop, where Aziraphale had living quarters, three months earlier. They had a pleasant routine – a bit of work in the shop, a lot of meals out, a lot of wine, a game of chess now and then. And every night they slept in each other’s arms.

It was perfect.

Crowley grabbed a cup of tea from the little kitchenette in the office, then strolled over to the desk to plant a kiss atop Aziraphale’s head. “What’s that?”

“Advertisement for an acting course.” Dare he ask? Crowley would detest the idea.

Crowley read it over his shoulder. “Put on a play? After only six weeks? Be a disaster.”

He took his tea to the sofa and sprawled across it. 

_Damn_. But it sounded like such _fun_. Aziraphale thought back over the times when Crowley had been dismissive of his interests – stage magic, the gavotte, tartan patterns, his pursuit of the best crepes. Why couldn’t his alleged _best friend_ be more supportive? It wasn’t fair.

He decided to throw caution to the wind. “I think it sounds like fun.”

“Oh, no. No, no, _no_. You are _not_ seriously considering _taking_ it?”

“I am. And there’s nothing you can say to dissuade me.”

Crowley stared at him, mouth agape. “How about, ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot’?”

_That_ tore it. Aziraphale shoved back his chair and stood. “I’m sorry you don’t care about anything that _I_ do.” He strode off towards the front door of the bookshop.

“Wait up!” Crowley strode up beside him, halting him with a hand on his arm. “Why are you so upset?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and sighed. “I just realized that you aren’t very kind about the things I like.” He paused. “It’s rather provoking.”

“Well, what are you going to do, storm outside and stride around the neighborhood in a huff?” Crowley took him by the shoulders and turned him back towards the office. “Come on.”

Aziraphale resisted. “I _want_ to stride about in a huff. It makes me feel better.” He tried to turn round towards the door again.

But Crowley had a firm grip. He looked him in the eyes, standing quite close, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“You what?” That stopped him trying to leave. “Really?”

“Yeah, really, truly, whatever I said, I apologize.”

“You called me a bloody idiot.”

“Did not. I said, _Don’t_ be a bloody idiot.”

“Same thing.”

“Isn’t the same thing at all.” Crowley tugged his sleeve. “Come back to the sofa. Please.”

“Yes, yes, very well.” He followed his friend to the office, where they sat down on the sofa. 

“That’s better.” Crowley snapped his fingers and miracled up two more cups of tea. He handed one over. “Here. Drink.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley sipped his tea. After a bit, he said, “Why would you want to prance around a stage, anyway?”

“I love the theatre.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“And I just thought, after all these centuries, why haven’t I ever tried being part of a production? Why can’t I try acting? It can’t be that much harder than performing stage magic for an audience. And you know how much I enjoy doing that.”

Crowley groaned. “It would be more enjoyable if you were any _good_ at it.”

“There you go again.” Honestly, what kind of friend was he? “You don’t have to _watch_.”

“Now you’re going to get tetchy, aren’t you? I’m only trying to protect you from being disappointed.”

“No, you are assuming that I’ll fail.” Aziraphale finished his tea and set the cup down. He stood and went to the desk, where he picked up the poster. “I’m going to call.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.” Crowley rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I can’t believe this. It’s _six weeks_. For _hours_ a day. What about your bookshop?” 

“It’s not as if I open it for the public that often.” Aziraphale picked up the receiver and started dialing.

“But you’ll be gone all that time – what about _me_?”

“Well, what about you?” He waited as the phone rang at the other end. Someone answered. “Hello? Yes, I’m calling about the Beginning Acting course? There is? Wonderful. How much? Right. Yes, I can put down a deposit today. What? No, just for one person –“

Crowley leapt from the sofa and snatched the receiver from him. 

“Give that back!” Aziraphale hissed, afraid he’d hang it up or worse, magically prevent him from signing up somehow. He grabbed Crowley’s hand and tried to wrest it away.

“Hello?” said a disembodied voice from the other end. “What was that? One registration, did you say?”

Crowley won the wrestling match. “No,” he replied. “Make it _two_.” 

He handed the phone to Aziraphale, who stood there, stunned. “ _Really?_ ”

“Hello? Are you still there?”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” Aziraphale quickly gave the information needed for two class enrollees, and hung up. “You’ll really do this for me?”

Crowley sighed. “I can’t have you out there on your own all that time. The Devil only knows what trouble you’d get into.”

“Trouble? Why would an acting class cause any trouble?”

“Trust me, _anything_ can, where you’re concerned.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “It will be _fine_. You’ll see.”

“Yes,” Crowley sighed. “I’m afraid I will.”

♦

“ _Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”_

Harriet Burns, the class instructor, applauded loudly, as did most of the students. “Brilliant – done with feeling! And your movements were wonderful. You are a natural on the stage.” Then she cleared her throat. “Next!”

Crowley sauntered off the small stage, passing Aziraphale on his way up.

The angel was _not_ pleased.

As he fumbled with his playbook, frowning, he thought several unkind thoughts about his closest and dearest friend in the world. The words _upstart_ and _quisling_ and _double-crossing upstager_ came to mind.

Possibly even a snake in the grass.

Ms. Burns clapped sharply. “Come along, Mr. Fell. Find your place.”

“Um, yes, sorry.” He found the part he’d been practicing. They were on monologues this week, the third one of the program. He cleared his throat.

“ _To be, or not to be, that is the question.”_ He looked carefully at the script as he spoke haltingly. He had got only a few lines in when the teacher stopped him.

“You are standing too still. Remember the lesson. People will follow movement, and will be more engaged. Did you notice how your friend embodied the words as he strutted and fretted about the stage? Try moving about more.”

“Yes, thank you.” He tried again, slowly working through Hamlet’s soliloquy, taking a tentative step now and then, or thrusting out his arm for emphasis.

It did not go well.

Harriet Burns, at least, did not make any further comments. She was generally a kind and patient teacher, a seasoned RADA professional who had guided the twelve students in the class through improvisation, character building, memory exercises, and how to express deep emotions, and had done so with great skill. 

Obviously, they weren’t going to go from beginning students to great actors in a mere six weeks, but she instilled them with enough confidence to believe they could read through a one-act play in public without embarrassing themselves. 

That is, most of them were instilled with confidence.

It was quite clear, here at the start of week three, that she had utterly failed to teach Aziraphale any skills at all.

She moved on to the next student, and the angel slunk back to his seat in the small north London theatre they met at. As he resumed his place next to Crowley, he let out a heartfelt sigh. He was dreadful.

“There, there.” Crowley patted his knee. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time.”

Aziraphale sighed even louder. He didn’t need, nor want, aid and comfort from the enemy. He crossed his arms and pouted silently.

“Hey.” Crowley shook his knee. “What’s wrong?”

As if he didn’t know. “ _You_ are.”

“ _Me?_ ” Crowley took his hand away. “What have _I_ done?”

“She called you ‘brilliant’. You’re a _natural_.” Honestly, had he no shame at showing him up?

“Ah. I see.” Crowley laughed lightly. “Of all the ridiculous, idiotic—“

Aziraphale stood and moved two seats over.

“Really?” Crowley shifted over next to him. “Are you really going to hold it against me that I’m actually _good_ at this stuff?”

“You could at least _try_ not to enjoy yourself so much up there.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible. I didn’t even _want_ to do this, remember? So I found out I’m good at it – so what? Shouldn’t you be overjoyed that I truly _want_ to be in this ruddy class with you now instead of hating every minute?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Aziraphale waved his hands in frustration. “Because _I_ am _awful_ at it, that’s why!”  
“Oh, is that how it is?” Crowley shook his head. “Professional envy. Not a very admirable trait for an angel.”

“This was _mine_ ,” Aziraphale whispered fiercely. “ _I_ was supposed to love being on the stage. But I’m no good. I’m stiff and awkward and I put no feeling at all into the lines. And there you are, gliding around the stage with ease, speaking the lines fluidly, creating a believable character – there you are _acting_ as if the stage were your second home!” He paused. “It’s not _fair_.”

“Fine. Let’s bag it, then.”

“What, quit?” Aziraphale hadn’t meant to go that far, to ruin Crowley’s fun. “But _you_ like it.”

Crowley shrugged. “I can take it or leave it.” He looked at Aziraphale with deep affection. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“Yes, well…we really shouldn’t quit. There are so few students, and we’re meant to perform a play. We’d be letting them all down.”

“True.” Crowley fingered his chin. “Tell you what. Why don’t we give it until the end of this week. She said she would cast the play then. We’ll both likely get bit parts and can decide then to go on or not.”

“ _I’ll_ get a bit part,” Aziraphale said sullenly. “She’ll probably give you the lead.”

“Nah.” Crowley wave his hand dismissively. “I skimmed through the play. Load of romantic comedy rubbish. She’ll want a pretty young couple.” He nodded towards two students in their twenties. “They’d be good. Don’t worry about it, and try to have more _fun_.”

“Very well.” He would stick with it for now.

But he doubted there would be any fun.

♦

It turned out he was wrong about that.

To Aziraphale’s surprise, things did improve over the rest of that week. They finished monologues, learned a good deal about blocking and stage business, and then moved on to two-person scenes.

One afternoon, after a morning of lackluster readings, Ms. Burns took Aziraphale aside and said, “I want you to do the next scene with your friend. I normally prefer not to let people who know each other well practice together, as it’s usually not as challenging for them. But I believe this might help you feel more at ease up there. Will you give it a try?”

He nodded. It certainly couldn’t be any worse than his attempts with other students. “Why not.”

And it worked out brilliantly.

She had them read through selected bits from the first act of Wilde’s comedy, _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , scenes between the two friends Jack “Ernest” Worthing and Algernon Moncrieff.

Harriet had Crowley perform the role of the layabout, dissembling Algernon, which he played to perfection. Aziraphale found, the more they got into the scenes, that he had less and less trouble relating to the words, and stopped stumbling over his lines. After all, Crowley _was_ a layabout, and he responded to Crowley’s lines as if they were simply two friends talking together off stage.

_“Where have you been since last Thursday?”_ Crowley read.

“ _In the country,”_ Aziraphale replied.

_“What on earth do you do there?”_

_“When one is in town one amuses oneself. When one is in the country one amuses other people. It is excessively boring.”_

_“And who are the people you amuse?”_ Crowley asked.

“ _Oh, neighbors, neighbors.”_

_“Got nice neighbors in your part of Shropshire?”_

_“Perfectly horrid! Never speak to one of them.”_

Crowley smiled. _“How immensely you must amuse them!”_

They read on for a bit, then Harriet had them skip over the scenes with more than their two characters, and had them read a short bit farther along with just Ernest and Algernon. This time she asked Crowley to read Ernest while Aziraphale switched to Algernon’s lines.

_“Now, my dear boy,”_ Aziraphale read, feeling very comfortable in the role, “ _if we want to get a good table at Willis’s, we really must go and dress. Do you know it is nearly seven?”_

_“Oh! It is always nearly seven,”_ Crowley replied.

_“Well, I’m hungry.”_

_“I never knew you when you weren’t….”_

Almost as if it were written for them, Aziraphale thought with a smile. _“What shall we do after dinner? Go to a theatre?”_

_“Oh no! I loathe listening.”_

_“Well, let us go to the Club?”_

_“Oh, no!”_ Crowley smiled at him. _“I hate talking.”_

_“Well, we might trot round to the Empire at ten?”_

_“Oh, no! I can’t bear looking at things. It is so silly.”_

_“Well, what shall we do?”_ Aziraphale asked, amused.

Crowley grinned. _“Nothing!”_

_“It is awfully hard work doing nothing. However, I don’t mind hard work where there is no definite object of any kind_.”

“That’s fine,” Ms. Burns called. “You were both wonderful. Thank you.”

They reluctantly set the playbooks down and returned to their seats.

Aziraphale beamed at Crowley. “That was _fun_!”

Crowley leaned in to brush his lips against the angel’s cheek. “You were a _natural_.”

_”Thank you.”_ He was warm, and happy, and content. “We’ll go on then. See it through.”

“Yes, why not.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see what parts we get in the play.” He hadn’t got around to looking through the one-act comedy they were to perform in a mere three weeks. He hadn’t wanted to – better to not anticipate getting a particular role only to be disappointed. “You looked at it, yes?” 

“A bit. I think I know what roles she’ll give us.”

“I don’t want to know. I want to be surprised.” He frowned. “At least, I think I do – there aren’t any roles that I’d hate to do, are there?”

“How should I know? What roles would those be?”

“Well, anything where I had to be…you know…romantic. You said it was a romance.”

“Romantic comedy. Nothing strenuous.” Crowley casually draped his arm around Aziraphale’s back. “Don’t fret. I’m pretty sure of who we’ll be, and you won’t hate it.”

Aziraphale gave him a puzzled look, then noticed Ms Burns gazing at them while rubbing her chin. She had a thoughtful expression. What on Earth? 

“I swear, you’ll like your role, and mine. They were made for us. Just wait and see,” Crowley said. 

He supposed that was all he could do.

♦

On the first day of the fourth week of class, they met in a room where they sat round a large table.

“We’ll do the cold reading today,” Ms. Burns told them. “Then we’ll move to the stage tomorrow to start rehearsals. The festival audience will know this is an amateur production, and won’t expect miracles. The play is light without strenuous acting required. You’ll be allowed to carry scripts on stage, though it would be nice if the bit parts were memorized. Shall we begin?”

Aziraphale sat next to Crowley at one end, his arms crossed, pouting again. He didn’t like this play, nor his role in it, and he had only returned because his angelic nature wouldn’t let him leave the other students in the lurch.

As Crowley predicted, when Harriet Burns handed out their roles at the end of last week, the youthful couple got the leads. They played two long-time friends who denied their attraction to each other in a series of increasingly amusing ways before the inevitable acknowledgment of their love.

His part, a much smaller one, was that of Oliver, an older neighbor to the female lead, who gave romantic advice to her. 

And who happened to live with a man. Who was named Christopher, and who was played by Crowley.

Which _might_ have been fine, had it not been for the bickering dialogues between the two.

After getting their scripts and roles that past Friday, he and Crowley had returned to the bookshop. That evening Aziraphale read the first scene they were in. Altogether, they had three fairly short scenes together, always with the young lady, who was named Alicia. 

In the first scene, Alicia arrived sobbing at Oliver and Christopher’s flat, upset at an unhappy date with the wrong man. It was already clear from preceding scenes, at least to the audience, that she really loved her friend Robert, and that her two neighbors knew that as well.

During this scene, she tentatively admitted that the reason her date had been a disaster was because she’d been thinking of Robert the whole time. She asked them for their advice on how to approach Robert romantically instead of merely as a friend.

_“Oh, just say it,”_ Crowley’s character told her. _“Look him in the eyes and say, ‘I love you’. Over and done.”_

_“Balderdash,”_ Aziraphale’s character replied. “ _A romance requires an element of mystery! You must be coy, yet aloof – make him intrigued, make him wonder.”_

_“Don’t listen, Alicia – he’s all wet. He never did that with_ me _.”_

_“You wouldn’t let me, you great pillock! Heart of bloody stone, he has.”_

The scene continued with Oliver and Christopher giving less and less advice to Alicia while bickering more and more between themselves until she snuck away without them noticing.

And _these_ were the characters that Crowley claimed they would enjoy playing? Two friends, and obviously lovers, who did nothing but argue about romance? Did Crowley believe he’d like the roles because they’d be easy for them to play convincingly, as the Wilde characters had been?

_Is that what he thinks we’re like?_

Botheration.

He flipped through the script to the second scene, hoping it might be an improvement. But it was more of the same – Alicia had taken Oliver’s advice, trying to be mysterious to attract Robert – and he had remained completely clueless. So she turned to her neighbors again for help.

_“He thought I had the flu,”_ her character told them. “ _And an eye tic. What am I going to_ do? _The New Year’s Eve ball is in one week, and he has a date, and I have a date, and I hate everything!_ ”

“ _Obviously,”_ Christopher replied, _“you followed the wrong advice._ Some people _haven’t a clue how to pursue a romance.”_

_“And_ some people _haven’t a clue when to shut it,”_ Oliver said. _“Now listen, my dear, I’ve got the perfect plan. Go to the ball, and dance with your date as closely to Robert and his date as you can get. Flirt_ madly _with yours, make sure he_ sees _you doing it. Overdo it, and he won’t be able to contain his jealousy.”_

_“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’ll saddle the poor girl with an infatuated loon, and it won’t be Robert. No, no, Alicia – go to the ball, ditch your date, stride right up to young Robert and tell him how you feel. There’s no mystery to love. There’s no pretense to love. It’s absolutely straightforward.”_

_“No pretense? Who pretended the other night that he forgot a certain anniversary due to a bout of beriberi - I_ ask _you?”_

And so it went on – another round of bickering until poor Alicia left them to it once more.

Aziraphale had tossed the play aside at that point, not bothering with their third and last scene together. It would only be more of the same.

Later that night as he lay in bed next to Crowley, he didn’t turn to embrace him as he usually did. Naturally, this did not go unremarked.

“What now?” Crowley asked. 

“I don’t like the play.”

“Why not?” Crowley turned to face him. “Thought you’d love those two.”

“Well, I don’t. All they do is fight.” Might as well come right out and ask. “Why would you think we’d be _good_ at playing them? _We_ don’t behave like that.”

Crowley shifted ever so slightly closer. “We have been known to bicker.”

They may have had their tiffs in the past, but Aziraphale had thought they were getting along well since Crowley had moved in.

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes, we do. Just last month you wanted to see that new musical, what was it – _Rainbow Over Manhattan?_ And I refused – it got wretched reviews – and you got tetchy.”

“I did _not_ get tetchy. Disappointed, perhaps, but not _tetchy_.”

“And there was that restaurant you wanted to try – some ridiculous fusion thing –“

“Bi Bim Tacos. Korean-Mexican. It got _rave_ reviews.”

Crowley shuddered. “Those two cuisines are bad enough on their own.”

“What do you care? You rarely touch a thing when we eat anyway.”  
“Not my point. My point is, we _do_ bicker. We _are_ like those characters, and we’ll have fun playing them, so why are you so hot and bothered?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Because we’re _not_ like them _at all_. Yes, a little disagreement now and then, fine – but not over anything that matters. Those two kept arguing about _love_.”

“Ah, I see your problem.” Crowley had managed to get right up alongside Aziraphale by now. He lay a hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Do you really think we’d ever fight about _that_?”

“Well, _you_ obviously thought so.”

“I did?”

“Yes!” Honestly, Crowley could be provoking. “You said we’d like playing those parts.” He thought about shoving Crowley’s hand away, but it did feel rather good, so he didn’t. He still wasn’t pleased. “You said they were _made_ for us.”

Crowley took his hand off Aziraphale’s shoulder and stretched his whole arm around his waist instead. He nestled his head against the angel’s. “How much did you read of it, out of curiosity.”

“Enough.”

“All three scenes?”

“No, only the first two. That was all I needed to know, thank you very much.” He thought about shoving Crowley’s arm off. 

But he didn’t. _Damned provoking demon_.

“Ah, well. That’s interesting. Why don’t you calm down and not make my weekend miserable, and we’ll just see this ridiculous thing through without any more bickering?”

“We don’t bicker,” Aziraphale replied.

“No, of course we don’t. Go to sleep, Angel.”

“Fine. Good _night_.”

Crowley kissed his forehead. “Good night, Angel.”

He thought about not bothering to kiss him back. Would serve the great nuisance right.

But in the end, even though he was still terribly annoyed, he did.

♦

Crowley had refused to discuss the play for the rest of that weekend, and now here they were in the class, ready for the first read-through of the whole thing. Aziraphale hadn’t picked it up again since tossing it aside, and he didn’t relish reading through those horrid lines, but he had little choice.

Might as well get it over with, and after this was done, and after the rehearsals were done, and after the wretched play had been performed, he was going to burn the script and he would never ask Crowley to join him in a half-baked, ill-thought-out venture ever again.

“Is everyone ready?” Ms. Burns asked. “Good. Let’s begin.”

The students read their parts out, with minor coaching, just a quick run-through to see how well the assigned roles fit and to get a feel for the whole thing.

Crowley and Aziraphale got through their first scene with minimal fuss and a decided lack of enthusiasm on the angel’s part.

Their second scene together went very much the same way. Crowley still irked him, and he didn’t see how they could ever get through this whole thing.

And then, near the end of the play, they reached the third scene, the one that Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to read.

By this point, Alicia and Robert had finally realized how much they cared for each other, and Alicia came over to Oliver and Christopher’s flat to give them the good news only to find the two men sitting on opposite ends of their sofa, arms crossed, not speaking to each other.

_“What’s wrong with you two?”_ she asked.

_“I don’t like him,”_ Oliver replied. _“He isn’t romantic enough.”_

_“And I don’t like_ him _,”_ Christopher said. _“He’s_ too _soppy and sentimental for words.”_

_“We’re not talking.”_

_“No, we are_ definitely _not talking.”_

_“Oh, don’t be absurd!”_ Alicia told them. _“I’m so happy today, I can’t stand to see you like this! I’m in love with Robert, and he’s in love with me, and_ you _are in love with each other, so stop this nonsense this instant!”_

_“Congratulations,”_ Oliver said. _“And I do not love him. He doesn’t know what love_ is.”

_“Of course I do. It’s simple and honest and plain as can be.”_

_“It’s also romantic and mysterious and full of unknowns.”_

_“No, it’s not.”_

_“Yes, it is.”_

_“Stop!”_ Alicia cried. _“It’s not either – it’s both, and all, and it’s everything! Don’t you see? It’s_ everything _you can ever possibly be together, it’s everything you_ are _together. But you can’t have any of it if you’re_ not _together.”_

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other, as the characters were instructed to do at this point. And Aziraphale, not looking at the script, said, “Yes, I know that.” He smiled. “Silly of me to forget.”

“That’s what I love about you,” Crowley replied. “That you can be silly at times, and serious at times, and happy one day or sad the next, and utterly vexing or utterly adoring and don’t ever stop being contradictory, all right?”

Aziraphale nodded, and touched his arm. “I can do that.”

“Ahem.” Harriet Burns cleared her throat. “I believe you went off-script there.”

“Oh, sorry.” Aziraphale took up the play. There were endearments between their two characters over the next few lines, not that unlike what they’d just spoken. 

They finished the scene, and the play, and took a break for lunch.

“You might have told me,” Aziraphale said as he and Crowley strolled down the street outside the classroom, heading for a cafe a few blocks away. Crowley had clearly read all of their scenes before they’d had their little scene at the bookshop the other night. That’s why he said they’d be good in the roles – he knew how it ended.

Crowley grinned. “Would’ve spoiled the fun.”

“I am never going to do anything like this again.”

“No? Is that a promise? No more desire to trod the boards, then?”

“No more _drama_ ,” Aziraphale replied. “Even if it was only a little bit of drama, in the end.”

“Right. Good idea.” Crowley stopped a few feet from the café door. He touched Aziraphale’s arm. “I only meant to tease you a little. You weren’t _really_ upset, were you?”

“Of course not. Annoyed, yes. Irritated, too. But reading that last scene together – well, it was lovely, wasn’t it?”

“ _I_ like the way that it ended.” Crowley smiled. “Clearly those two were made for each other.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied as they continued into the café. “They clearly were.”

♦

Two weeks later they stood on a stage at the Innovator’s Drama Festival at the end of the play, taking their bows to good applause.

Aziraphale basked in the limelight, happy to be standing there on the boards of a real theatre, delighted at the audience’s response, and amazed at how lucky he felt to be a part of it at last. He held Crowley’s hand as they stepped forward to take bows together, in character.

The applause increased for them, and they took a second bow before stepping back into the ensemble. 

When the curtain came down, Ms. Burns came over to them. “You were both very, very good. I’m impressed by how much you improved over the weeks, Mr. Fell.”

“I had a great teacher,” he replied. He squeezed Crowley’s hand as he said it.

“Thank you. I hope you’ll consider doing this again.” Then she turned away to congratulate the other students.

“Never in a thousand thousand years,” Crowley said. He raised an eyebrow. “Right?”

“That’s an awfully long time,” Aziraphale replied. “Probably won’t even be any theatre by then.”

“Well,” Crowley said as he leaned in to kiss him, “we’ll just have to wait and see.”

They skipped the cast party, went home to the bookshop, and spent one of the most pleasant nights they’d had in some time, being everything they could possibly be to each other -- together as one.

♦♦♦


End file.
